If You Understand the Nuance
by taylorpotato
Summary: Mycroft Holmes spends his days telling other other people what to do. But in certain situations, he'd rather be the one taking the orders. Along comes John Watson. Who holds himself like a soldier and has a knack for barking commands. Pretty much this is just unabashed Johncroft smut. Read the warnings.


_**Fair warning: explicit sexy times. BDSM. Caning/spanking. Biting. Rimming. Slight daddy kink. Dom John and Sub Mycroft being filthy together.**_

* * *

Mycroft had spent most of his life trying to live up to something. Something grand and intangible. An ideal, superimposed over reality.

It had to do with grace. With tradition. With good taste and proper discretion.

Nobody ever told him that he needed to dress well and be the picture of good diplomacy. Just like nobody ever explicitly said that Mycroft must grow up and make something of himself.

But around the time Father died, when Mycroft was only fourteen, and Sherlock had just turned seven, he felt a weight settle down upon his shoulders. Something to do with becoming the man of the house. _Take care of Sherlock. Take care of your Mother._ Something to do with living as a proper gentlemen and scholar.

Perhaps he did it to spare Sherlock and his mother the burden.

While they sat outside in the sunshine, while Mummy read her novels, and Sherlock chased frogs around the pond, Mycroft ran the household. He kept the family's finances in order. He went to Oxford and studied political science. He graduated with honors.

Perhaps it had to do with following in his father's footsteps—behaving as a dead man's shadow rather than a real, separate entity.

In the end, it's far easier to become someone else than to discover yourself. Mimicry is an acquirable skill. Personality is a murky and abstract concept at best.

Still, Mycroft kept a few vices for himself. He smoked the occasional cigarette, and he drank expensive brandy… and every now and then he'd go to some smoky bar and get off with a random stranger in the men's toilet.

These were his secrets, and he kept them very close. They comforted him late in the night, when he wondered what it was all for.

He came to run the country in the same way he came to run the Holmes Estate. He took on responsibilities little by little until he made himself indispensible. Nobody in the British government could tell you _exactly_ what Mycroft Holmes did.

He did a bit of everything, and a lot of certain, very important things.

He had his own office, a comfortable salary, and complete job security. They could never be rid of him—because he did the work of an entire government branch. Quietly. Covertly. Nobody noticed how much power they'd given him until it was too late to take it back.

But he didn't abuse his position, as some people might. No, the worst he did was get his little brother out of a few tight spots with the law. Sherlock, ever the ungrateful bastard, didn't make it easy. Sometimes Mycroft suspected that Sherlock actively _tried_ to get arrested when he got bored.

Because they both knew, no matter how much money it might cost, or how many invisible strings needed to be pulled, Mycroft would never let his only sibling rot in a prison cell.

For the most part, however, Mycroft's days ran seamlessly. He avoided situations that caused trouble. He developed political relationships and avoided personal ones. When he got lonely, he took care of it quietly. In the nicest of terms, he became a man of solitude. A figure of great intrigue and respect. In plainer speech, he was a lonely bachelor.

He built a life that comfortably housed one person, and would have been quite content to keep it that way.

That is, until he met John Watson.

* * *

The small army doctor had a lot of rather intriguing qualities. Loyal, not easily frightened, with the crooked sort of moral compass that would let him actually befriend somebody like Sherlock Holmes.

Mycroft's first few interactions with John were all business. Making sure he was trustworthy. Making sure he'd never sell Sherlock over to the devil—like some had tried to do in the past.

For the most part, John provided a useful way to get in contact with Sherlock when he was sulking. He provided a much-needed buffer between Sherlock and the rest of polite society.

It was a good arrangement. Mycroft worried a bit less.

He didn't miss the way John sometimes stared at his little brother, with hot, burning _desire_ in his eyes. There wasn't much to worry about there. Sherlock had never been interested in sex. And if he became interested, Mycroft had no reason to be jealous over it. No good reason, anyway.

He had no claim to Mr. Watson. When they'd been children, Sherlock had always wanted to play with all of Mycroft's toys. Perhaps it was a similar sentiment. Wanting something just because Sherlock had it.

The entire notion was silly.

Still, sometimes, late in the quite of the night, Mycroft gave over to vague mental wanderings. What it might be like if John pushed him up against a wall and called him a _slut_ in that dangerous, low, growl. The voice he used when he got really cross. Not John the civilian… but John the _soldier_.

He often considered what it would take. What he'd need to do in order to push John towards that edge of anger, just so he could bask in the wrath of it.

But of course, it would cause unnecessary discord in his life. So he let his little infatuation stay in the realm of fantasy.

* * *

It didn't happen gradually, like things are supposed to. There were no warning signs. No preamble. No logical thought.

It was a Saturday night. One of the first nights in months that Mycroft didn't have somewhere to be or any sort of impending crisis to attend to. He decided to go out. Not to the Diogenes. No. Somewhere dark and smoky, where nobody would recognize him.

He put on one of his least expensive suits and found a likely place in the midst of bustling city life. It was coincidence that he picked a small pub near the surgery John happened to work at. Well, mostly coincidence. But he didn't really dare hope for anything. He ordered some top shelf brandy and sipped it slowly.

The crowd filled in around him. He didn't pay it much attention. If he didn't make an effort to stand out, he could usually occupy space unobtrusively. One glass of brandy turned into another. He let his mind drift.

He thought about picking up and leaving. Heading to one of the clubs where he'd be more likely to find other lonely men. But he was getting to be the age where he looked out of place in those sorts of establishments. He didn't like the pounding electronic music. He felt old, looking at all the young boys in thin t-shirts and skin-tight jeans.

A man slid into the seat next to him. Mycroft didn't turn his head until he spoke.

"I'll get a pint of Fosters, please."

He recognized the voice. It only took a moment for it to slot into place. He turned his head slowly.

And there was John Watson. In dress slacks and a button down. Obviously recently off work. He still smelled like disinfectant and medical supplies.

"Hello, John," Mycroft smiled. His heart raced slightly. Lady luck had always been kind to him. But he hadn't suspected she'd ever be _this_ kind.

The doctor did a double take. "Mycroft? What… what are you doing here? Did you…"

"No. I didn't follow you," Mycroft chuckled, "for once, it seems, we've come together by a genuine accident."

"Well, then," John nodded, perhaps a bit flustered, "can I buy you a pint?"

Mycroft had a small internal debate with himself. It took less than ten seconds. In that time he listed all the reasons why he should say no, thought of plausible ways to excuse himself, and contemplated the wonderful rosy flush on John's cheeks and the endearing muss of his blonde hair.

"I suppose so," Mycroft found himself saying.

John waved at the bartender. Before Mycroft could take any of it back, he had a pint of Fosters in front of him, and John was yammering about some case he and Sherlock had solved recently.

Mycroft sipped the beer tentatively. He hadn't drank Fosters since University. He listened to the quality of John's voice more than his actual words. Because Mycroft read the blog. And he knew everything that John and Sherlock got up to anyway, because he had them under rather extensive surveillance. Those weren't the sorts of things you said. So he laughed politely at the right times, and dank his beer slowly. Because after he finished it, he'd probably have to go.

Except, when he set his empty pint glass down, John waved at the bartender for another round. And before long they'd moved from the bar to a booth in the corner. They sat opposite each other, sipping their beers, occasionally glancing out at the rest of the people crowded into the pub. The conversation flowed with a surprising ease.

John had lots of amusing anecdotes about his University years. Quite a few of them began with, "well, this one time, me and my mate Mike Stamford got absolutely _pissed_…" and ended with "after that I blacked out, and I woke up naked on the roof."

Mycroft listened. Commented where appropriate. Tried not to stare at John's mouth. But as they kept drinking, it became progressively more difficult to focus.

"So what about you, then?" John hiccuped slightly. "Is this what you do when you're not running the country? Cruise dingy local pubs?"

"My job does tend to be rather time consuming," Mycroft waved his hand vaguely. "I honestly don't get out that much these days."

"Well, I suppose I should be honored you're spending the evening with the likes of me," John smiled easily. Warmly. "So um… that assistant of yours, Anthea?"

"Is that's the name she gave you?"

"Why? What's it really?"

"Oh, she'd be quite cross if I told you. Quite the private girl. That's part of what makes her so valuable."

"Fine. Whatever. But… well are you two…?"

"Oh, god no," Mycroft snorted. "I mean, she's quite the beautiful woman, I'm certain. But not really my type."

"So what is your type?" John quirked an eyebrow.

"Hard to describe," Mycroft replied evenly.

"Oh, come on. I bet you like the really posh girls, don't you?"

"Hardly."

"I wouldn't hold it against you, mate. It's all fine."

"And what's your type, Mr. Watson? Tall, dark, and impetuous?" Mycroft said before he could stop himself.

"Oh fuck, not you too," John groaned, "I swear to god. If I have to explain that Sherlock and I are just flat mates one more time—"

"I know that you and my brother aren't in any sort of sexual relationship. He simply doesn't operate that way. But you don't have to pretend you aren't attracted to him. It doesn't bother me. Human sexuality has a lot of shades that are too complex to label. I try not to worry myself over it."

John shrugged and downed the rest of his pint. Mycroft chewed on his lower lip. Wondering if he'd ruined a perfectly good evening. Usually he knew exactly what to say. Perhaps he'd drank a bit too much…

"You know, most of the time, when people start talking about varying degrees of sexuality—they're up to something," John licked his lips.

"What?" Mycroft startled slightly.

"I was in the army, mate. Months at a time, stationed out in the middle of nowhere with the same few blokes. I heard just about every trick in the book. Oh… 'It's not gay if we don't kiss' or 'it's just like masturbating, except, you know, your hand is on somebody else's prick,'" John laughed.

He didn't seem cross.

Mycroft dared a smile. "Believe me, Mr. Watson, if I were trying to seduce you—you'd know it."

"Yeah? What would you do? Whisk me away in a private jet? Wine and dine me on some tropical beach? It might work. I'd give just about anything to see the sun after all the rain we've been having."

"I'll keep that in mind. Anything else I should know, in order to prepare for said hypothetical seduction?"

"Hmm… I'd prefer to be called _Captain _Watson during all bedroom activities," John snorted.

"Certainly. _Captain _John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Does have a rather nice ring to it. I bet you're quite dominant, aren't you? Used to barking orders and having people follow them…"

"Yeah, well, probably makes two of us, doesn't it? I mean—maybe I'm wrong, but it seems like you can move the world with a snap of your fingers."

"I suppose, but it does get rather tedious on occasion. Perhaps it would be nice to _take_ the orders for once."

A pause stretched out between them. Something vague and electric crackled in the air. Even though they had the table between them, Mycroft could almost feel John's body heat.

The doctor's eyes flicked up and down, quickly. Mycroft shifted, perhaps trying to diffuse the tension that had developed so suddenly.

Their knees brushed together underneath the table.

"So you like to be a bit submissive?" John drawled each word slow and easy, yet the question carried a bizarre weight.

"With the right sort of person," Mycroft replied carefully.

"Which would be?"

"Confident, powerful, yet gentle. Somebody with a terrifying temper that only comes out every once in a while. I don't like to submit as much as I like to surrender, if you understand the nuance."

"I think I might."

"But you're heterosexual. How boring," Mycroft laughed.

"Mostly. But you know… not always."

"Oh, so now _you're_ talking about varying degrees of sexuality. Does that mean you are, in fact, up to something, Mr. Watson?"

"We'll just have to find out, won't we?" John grinned.

* * *

Mycroft's heart raced as they stepped out of the pub into the cold night air. Usually he'd call one of his drivers. But John flagged down a cab and slid inside it. Mycroft followed. A bit unsteady. A bit terrified about the uncertainty of it all.

But John didn't ask the usual questions. _Yours or mine? Should we get a hotel?_ No. He said, "221 Baker Street," with complete certainty, and they were off.

Mycroft wanted to ask what on earth John was thinking. But he held his tongue. Mostly because as soon as the cab started moving, John laid a hand on Mycroft's thigh. Halfway up, not quite scandalous, but nowhere near innocent. He squeezed gently. Mycroft barely suppressed a shudder.

They remained silent. With that minimal amount of physical contact. The cab sped along. Mycroft pulled out his mobile covertly, and sent off a text. An inquiry about his brother's location. He got a response almost immediately.

It seemed Sherlock was currently at St. Bartholomew's Research Hospital. Had been there nearly all day. He would be promptly notified if Sherlock left…

He pocketed his mobile, relaxing, if only slightly. As they drew closer to Baker Street, John's hand migrated further up Mycroft's thigh. His fingers fluttered, teasingly. By the time the cab arrived, Mycroft was half hard. The dry-mouthed anticipation skittered through him.

John paid the cabbie. Didn't even give Mycroft a chance to offer. Then he curled a hand around the taller man's bicep, and led him gently to the front door. Inside, up the stairs. They barely paused in the parlor, before they continued up to the third floor. John's bedroom.

With his hand on the doorknob, John looked up at Mycroft, eyes bright, full of nearly nervous excitement.

"Do you have a safe word?" John asked, all business.

"I think _red_ should do," Mycroft shrugged.

John smiled. Then he opened the door.

Mycroft stepped over the threshold, a bit uncertainly, and John closed the door behind them. All was dark for a moment, before John flicked on the light.

The room was tidy, almost crisply so. The bed made with a seemingly mechanical precision. There were few personal items on the walls or the desk. Just John's computer, and a painting of the seashore hanging on the far wall. It screamed _military_. It screamed _discipline._

John stepped forward, placing his hands firmly on Mycroft's hips and he all but pulled the other man downwards. Their mouths met. Softly at first. But then John's tongue flicked out, tracing the seam of Mycroft's lips. The motion to open up and let him in was nearly unconscious. Then John seemed to be everywhere. One hand tangled in Mycroft's dark auburn hair. The other firmly cupping the curve of his arse. His tongue didn't explore, it _plundered._ He kissed slow, and deep, and absolutely filthy. It made Mycroft feel slightly dizzy.

As quickly as he'd initiated contact, John pulled away. Unfairly composed. Certainly breathing a bit faster, with wet lips… but he squared his shoulders and looked Mycroft up and down almost coldly.

"On your knees," he said in a low voice. It wasn't forceful by its volume, but by its intention. Like a whip cracking across Mycroft's brain. He _wanted_ to obey. But instead, he simply raised an eyebrow.

"I'm not a dog, and I don't follow commands like one." He smiled. Because he didn't like to make it easy. He liked to struggle as much as he liked to eventually give in.

"Trust me, you won't like it if I have to repeat myself."

Mycroft stayed perfectly still. He waited. Heart pounding.

"Right then," John nodded. He walked across the room in measured, even steps. He opened the door to his closet and bent down. Mycroft admired the view, if just for a moment. Then John straightened back up, holding a thin, wicked looking cane. Not the metal one the doctor habitually used to carry around. No. This one was polished wood. Rattan, perhaps?

"I expect obedience," John said in that same, low dangerous voice. "And I expect it promptly. If you don't comply with direct orders, I will punish you. So if you disobey me, I'm going to assume it's because you want to be hurt. Now I'll say it just one more time, _kneel."_

Mycroft licked his lips and dropped his eyes to the floor. But he said nothing. The excitement pulsed through him as he heard John's footsteps. When he felt the smaller man's surprisingly strong grip on his shoulder.

John shoved Mycroft down onto his knees. Partly because the taller man allowed it. But he got the feeling John would be able to force him even without his compliance, and that thought sent a shivery arousal through Mycroft's body. His cock twitched in his trousers, growing impossibly harder.

John kept one hand on Mycroft's shoulder as he drew back the cane. Mycroft knew better than to brace himself for the blow.

It came quickly and with surprising force. The cane crossed Mycroft's arse. Once, two, three, four, five times, it forced a small yelp out of his mouth. It stung. Even through the fabric. John had a wicked aim, managing to hit almost the exact same spot with each stroke.

Mycroft didn't have much time to ponder the sensation. The pain and lingering heat. Because then John stood in front of him. Grabbed a fist full of Mycroft's hair and jerked his head forward, so that his face pressed into John's crotch.

"Now let's try this again," John said in the same calm voice, "unzip my trousers, and suck my cock like the disgusting little tart you are."

_Oh god_.

Mycroft barely bit back the moan. He compromised between following John's order, and drawing out more punishment, by mouthing wetly at John's erection through the fabric of his slacks.

John tugged at Mycroft's hair sharply. "Now, slut."

Mycroft's hands rose of their own accord and fumbled with John's belt. He managed to undo the buckle after a few tries. Along with the button and the zip. John wasn't wearing any pants.

Mycroft wrapped one hand around the base of John's cock and began to slowly lave the head of it with teasing little licks. John tapped the cane against Mycroft's hip as a warning. Which of course, went unheaded.

Once again, John tugged at Mycroft's hair. Then he shoved into his mouth. Mycroft shifted his hands to John's hips and held on for dear life as John began to fuck his throat. Harsh. Deep. It was quite nearly claustrophobic. Mycroft almost couldn't breathe. Took small, gasps of air through his nose as John's cock violated his throat.

He didn't swallow. The drool ran down his chin. Sloppy. Used.

It was glorious.

When John pulled back, Mycroft felt slightly dizzy. He wasn't prepared for it, when John's hand crossed his face with a resounding smack. It almost knocked him off balance.

"Strip and get on the bed," John barked.

Mycroft was a bit too dazed to argue. He slid out of his jacket, and unbuttoned his vest and shirt, letting them fall on the ground. He stood, toed off his shoes, socks, and dropped his trousers. John watched, biting his lip as Mycroft's pants fell to the floor leaving him entirely naked. The taller man should have felt self-conscious. He wasn't used to being examined so closely. But the only thing he felt was the burn of lust, and the sting where John had caned him.

"On the bed, now, face down," John nudged Mycroft with the cane.

Mycroft complied. He managed not to stumble, at least. To lie down with some semblance of grace.

He waited. Time dragged almost to a standstill. Then he heard the rustling fabric. The clinking of a belt buckle.

John grabbed Mycroft's wrists, held them together, and looped the leather belt around them several times before buckling it tight. It wasn't the strongest of bonds. Mycroft probably could have slipped it, if he'd felt like it… but of course he didn't. He let the familiar haze settle over him. The feeling of being trapped. The leather against is skin. The cool air of the room crowding in around him.

The bed dipped, as John's weight shifted onto it. His hands ran up the backs of Mycroft's thighs, then pulled them apart.

Mycroft complied, spreading his legs so John could presumably kneel between them. He felt the smaller man settling.

Then two hands pulled his arse Cheeks apart. Slight sore sting. Warm breath, on his tailbone. Then lower. Oh god. Oh _fuck_.

The first tentative flick of John's tongue sent Mycroft reeling. A wet gasp escaped his mouth. He pressed his face into the mattress and shuddered as John's tongue brushed against his arsehole again.

"Like that, do you?" John murmured.

"Oh yes, _Captain_. Please…" Mycroft mumbled.

John's tongue began to circle the ring of muscle, sometimes flattening, brushing across it. Almost dipping inside—just to tease.

God it was filthy. Mycroft could barely maintain his self control and keep still. He wanted to push back against John's tongue. Show how greedy he was. But if he gave in, the fun would be over. So he stayed relatively still.

He couldn't keep the occasional incoherent moan from slipping out. Especially when John's tongue actually dipped _inside_ him. Wet, and hot, and utterly glorious… before flicking back out. Tracing gentle circles.

Mycroft broke fairly quickly. Writhed against the duvet. Seeking out any form of friction he could possibly get.

John pulled back and smacked Mycroft's arse.

"Do you want my cock inside you? Is that what you're squirming for?" Mycroft remained silent. John smacked him again. "Answer me."

"Yes, Captain. I need it."

John shifted. Mycroft heard a drawer slide open and shut. The snick of a plastic cap. Then two slick fingers slid across Mycroft's arsehole, barely dipping inside before they retreated. He groaned. John pressed one finger in. Slow. But all at once. He never paused.

He squirmed the finger around, brushing against Mycroft's prostate deliciously, before he pulled it back out. He worked that same finger in and out for what felt like a small eternity. He didn't add a second finger until Mycroft started to buck back against him in frustration.

By the time they got to three fingers, Mycroft felt he might have a heart attack. He'd never been so hard. His entire body felt flushed.

He whimpered as John withdrew his fingers. The doctor grabbed Mycroft's hip and rolled him over onto his back. Mycroft didn't struggle. He let John settle between his legs again. John rolled a condom on. For a few moments, he stared at Mycroft with an intensity that should have been frightening. Then he moved.

The doctor supported himself on one arm as he positioned his cock with the other. He sank into Mycroft slowly. When he was fully seated, he paused for a moment, and dipped down to bite the taller man on the neck. Not quite hard enough to break the skin. But more than enough to leave a bruise.

He established a punishing rhythm. Mycroft could do much more besides wrap his legs around John's waist and surrender to the sensation.

"How's that feel?" John grunted.

"Oh… oh Captain…" Mycroft whined.

"You like it hard and deep don't you?"

"Uhh…"

Mycroft could barely think. His entire world buzzed. Focused in around the rippling pleasure-pain. John had been gentle enough in his preparation that Mycroft could handle the intensity of the penetration. But just barely. It walked that perfect razor edge of too much and not enough.

"So tight and perfect," John said breathlessly, "such a good boy."

_Boy_. A random neuron sparked in Mycroft's addled brain. Pet? Was John talking to him like a pet? No… it tied in with wanting to be called Captain, didn't it? Authority figure complex. Tangential to…

_Oh_.

"Yes sir," Mycroft whispered, in a small, almost quavering voice, "give it to me. Take care of me. Please. Oh… it's so _big_."

John groaned.

Obviously the right direction. To be fair, he probably could piece it together a bit more quickly if John weren't pounding into him, glancing against his prostate every so often in _exactly_ the right way.

Still, Mycroft was good at reading people. Even as the pleasure sparked through him, and made everything go hazy at the edges.

"Please… da—" he pretended to catch himself. Like he hadn't meant to say it.

But John didn't stop. He slowed slightly. Leaned in to whisper against Mycroft's ear. "What was that?"

"I wasn't thinking," Mycroft whimpered.

"It's all right… you can call me that if you want."

Mycroft paused. Pretending to think it over. Because of course, John _wanted_ to be called that. He could almost feel the other man's cock getting harder inside him.

"Oh, _Daddy_," Mycroft whined low, fragile.

John groaned. His head dropped, pressing into the place where Mycroft's neck met his shoulder. He drove into Mycroft with a bit more vigor. His breath became a bit more frantic. Mycroft squirmed. Rolling his hips to meet John's thrusts. He struggled against the belt. Just a bit. Just to feel the leather press into his flesh.

It was always an odd mixture between danger and safety. Between, _trapped, struggle, escape_ and _surrender_, _pleasure, contentment.__  
_

John reached between them and wrapped a hand around Mycroft's prick. He began to stroke it in time with his motions.

"There we are, love," John said in a softer voice, "now be good, and come for me. I want to see it. I want to _feel_ it."

John shifted, angled his thrusts upwards slightly. Mycroft could hardly breathe. The doctor focused the motions of his hand around the head of Mycroft's cock.

The tension built much to fast. It coiled and gathered deliciously deep inside Mycroft's body. The strange anticipation welled up. Like freefall. For a few moments, it seemed uncertain. Like he might not go over the edge.

But then of course, he did.

He crashed. Burned. His muscles clenched down around John's cock as he ejaculated, smearing a distinct stickiness between them. The pleasure rolled through Mycroft's nerve endings. Intense pulses that tapered off gradually.

John didn't last very much longer. Mycroft still felt hazy when the smaller man shuddered and went still. Let out a low grunt as he emptied himself into Mycroft's body.

John pulled out slowly, tied off the condom, threw it in the rubbish can underneath his desk, and then collapsed onto the bed beside Mycroft.

"Jesus," John chuckled after a minute. "Why didn't you tell me you were a fantastic shag? Think of all the time we've wasted."

Mycroft snorted. A few silent minutes passed. Then John draped an arm across Mycroft's chest, curling against him.

"John…" Mycroft said uncertainly.

"Look, if you're going to give me one of those _I don't have emotions_ speeches, don't bother. Because Sherlock tries to all the time and it's utter crap."

"No, actually, I was simply going to suggest that I should leave before my brother returns—as him walking through the door to find us like this might cause a somewhat awkward situation."

"Oh," John nodded. "Yeah. Right… can I see you again?"

"You see me quite often."

"No I mean—like this."

"Ah. You would like to?"

"Are you joking?"

"Well, then, something can be arranged."

* * *

It wasn't a very regular thing. It happened perhaps twice a month, when Mycroft could steal a moment for himself. Sometimes they went to Hotels. Sometimes to Baker street. On very rare occasions, when they could both free up most of a weekend, John came to Mycroft's country house.

They texted occasionally. Then more frequently. About unimportant things. Mycroft spent a lot of time wishing he weren't quite so busy. And even more time fantasizing about John's cane whistling through the air.

It wasn't the model of a stability. It flared, hot and wild whenever they came together. And it ached increasingly every time Mycroft had to leave the morning after.

Somehow, they slipped from twisted, brutal fucking, into something a bit slower.

Most of the time, John would still chain Mycroft down. Smack him. Call him a whore. But on occasion, on late nights, when they were both half asleep, they'd rock together, kiss softly, whisper sweet, incoherent nothings to each other—and it would seem like the world had stopped.

Mycroft kept telling himself not to get too attached. But the months dragged on, and John kept calling him. Kept saying, _when can I see you again?_

Then one night, as they lay in bed, sweaty, exhausted, drifting off to sleep, John barely murmured it.

"Love you."

Mycroft froze—because in his adult life, nobody had ever said that to him and meant it.

But then John pressed a kiss against Mycroft's cheek. He pulled Mycroft closer to him. (John always insisted on being the big spoon, despite his height). And it felt real.

He waited until it seemed like John had fallen asleep, until his breathing patterns had slowed, and he'd relaxed slightly. Then he replied.

"I love you too."

* * *

_Special thanks to cinderlily33, who commissioned this glorious piece of depravity. _

_Do you also enjoy less popular pairings? Have you been looking for a fic with a very specific set of kinks? Do you just want some guaranteed smutty smut? Well... I WILL WRITE THAT SHIT FOR YOU. EXACTLY THE WAY YOU WANT IT. NO, REALLY._

_If you're interested in making me your smut puppet check out **the commissions page of my tumblr** or shoot me an email: **taylorpotato at yahoo .com.**_


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